


incentive

by fraud



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Slurs, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1581086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraud/pseuds/fraud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amazing how fast even the loudest asshole can get quiet with the right incentive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	incentive

Gloves were _such_ a good idea.

Jason would thank Bruce for continuing at least _that_ part of the costume’s tradition—really, who voted out the pixie boots and hot pants?—if Damian’s hand on his shoulder were in any way appropriate. Somehow, with his hand wrapped around Damian’s dick, and his fingers shoved down Damian’s throat, muffling the needy sounds Damian can’t fucking keep to himself as he squeezes a vicious bruise into Jason’s trapezius, Jason is fairly certain _nothing_ about this situation is at all appropriate. But, the gratitude for an extra protective layer between Damian’s nails and Jason’s skin is there, and therapists would probably call his recognition of that “a big step.”

Then again, fucking the son of the man who he grew up hopelessly in love with, who also happens to be the son of the megalomaniacal villainess who resurrected and supplied him with the rehabilitative means necessary to come back to the only place that simultaneously felt like hell and home, is probably _not_ the most fucked up thing he’s ever done. His fingers slip out of Damian’s mouth, smearing spit across Damian’s lips and cheek; avoiding the teen’s eager, hungry mouth when he seeks to reclaim Jason’s wandering fingers. Jason likes the way Damian’s hitched whines and ragged breathing fills up the space, unusually loud and almost palpable in the quiet of the car.

Fuck. He’d downright bankrupt Bruce if he ever agreed to therapy.

A vindictive part of himself almost considers that enough of an incentive to go…

“Don’t stop J- aah…“ The fingers dig deeper into his shoulder, and Jason’s going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.

But, damn, if it isn’t worth it to see the kid squirm.

Jason slows his strokes, marginally, and Damian’s teeth attempt to bury themselves in his kiss-swollen bottom lip. Sprawled and opened legged across both the passenger and driver’s seat, seemingly at the mercy of a warm palm’s pace, Jason is torn between annoyance at the kid’s seemingly inbred anal retentiveness, and delight at the flutter that visibly tightens Damian’s abdomen every time Jason’s knuckles absently brush him on an upstroke.

A twist of his wrist and Damian’s foot connects with the roof of the car, using whatever he can in this small, cramped space, to get some leverage on Jason; to get closer, to get _there_.

“Ahnn—Todd if you stop now I will break every last cervical vertebrae in your spine-“ Damian’s words are starting to run together, like he’s trying to push them out before he comes and can’t think to threaten Jason for five whole seconds.

Jesus. Dick sure tried to get the kid to open up, but only ended up doing a number on him instead—and isn’t that funny, in it’s own fucked up, cyclical, sins-of-the-father kind of way?

Sloughing his laugh off as a snide huff of breath, lest Damian get distracted, Jason leans back and spits into his palm, speeding up on Damian’s slick cock. “Stop getting off on imaginary crippling me and just come already, brat.”

Crammed into the front seat, their legs hanging out of the open drivers-side door, like they haven’t quite committed to doing this here— and this _wasn’t_ where the night was headed but this is where they’ve ended up. Jason’s back and arm are screaming in protest and Damian is fucking up into his hand, desperate for the friction, glancing between Jason’s hand on his dick and the shape of Jason’s domino like he’s not sure which is more liable to make him lose it.

In the end, its Jason’s agonized, “Jesus _fuck,_ kid,” that has Damian’s toes curling in his boots and his come spilling all over his belly.

Jason doesn’t look to see where the white of Damian’s domino lenses are focused.

They still haven’t talked about _that_ —any of this, really—but Jason is gentle when he lets Damian go a moment later.

The dim streetlights of the alleyway illuminate the car’s interior in patches, and Damian sinks back into the familiar comfort of shadows, boneless and breathless—for the moment. With his vest thrown open, the glaring yellow R pushed off to the side like a hasty afterthought and his black thermal shoved up just far enough to hopefully avoid any incriminating stains, the darkness isn’t quite dense enough to mask the furious pounding of Damian’s heart in his chest.

If they ever do this the right way, with a bed and clothes scattered on the floor and enough light to actually see each other by, Jason will worry about the overwhelming impulse to rip his other glove off and press his palm to Damian’s chest, to really _lean into_ it, right where Damian’s heart beats against his ribs like a frantic bird’s wings.

Jason keeps his glove on, and closes his eyes against the thought.

Swallowing, the smell of sweat and come heavy enough in the air that Jason can almost taste it—and hey, that’s not a bad idea. Damian may have the refractory period of a semi-automatic, but Jason likes the gut-deep itch that comes with savoring the insistent, almost uncomfortable press of his dick against an armored jock. They’ve got at least a couple minutes to fill before Jason can completely wreck Damian again, and Jason’s hand is sticky.

Waste not want not, and all that.

He brings his hand up to his mouth and drags his tongue across his palm, chasing the taste down to the tip of his finger. Two showily thorough licks are all Jason manages before Damian dives for Jason’s waistband. He has to pin Damian’s hands to the dull grey upholstery to keep him from grabbing the goods.

“Calm down kid, that’s not going anywhere.” Jason assures, ignoring the feel of Damian’s leg bending, pressing the width of his thigh up against the back of Jason’s to keep him from backing out of the car.

Even after all this time, Jason knows the move for what it is, but he’s sure as hell not going to be the first to say it.

Damian tests Jason’s hold on his wrists. “But you didn’t finish.”

“Yeah, and I’m not going to—at least,” Jason smirks, letting his meaning sink in with the curve of his mouth before he comes right out with it. “Not as many times as you will, baby bird.”

Damian squirms, his cock already, impossibly, rising to the occasion.

God. To be sixteen and fucking _invincible_.

“Don’t look so eager.” Jason leers, ready to fuck the attitude right out of him, even if the ambition may very well kill him. Hell, if he keeps this up blue balls might kill him before exhaustion does—but oh, what a way to go…

“I’m not.” Damian denies, even though he’s only half-flaccid and painted a liar with his own come.

“Oh yeah?” Jason lets his eyes travel down Damian’s body, clearly debating whether his desire to follow that look with his tongue is more insistent than his need to prove his point. Very few things are as important as Jason proving his point… and Damian squirms so nicely under just his gaze. “Your cock is telling me differently.”

Even in the dark, Jason can see the flush that stains Damian from chest to cheek. “Shut up and suck me, Todd.”

“Masochist.” Jason snorts, pulling himself up Damian’s body, purposefully moving away from the teen’s insistently rising dick. There are some things they just don’t tell you about the pit, or maybe it’s just Jason’s defective body, but Damian’s jaw is always so smooth under Jason’s touch and there are these secret things they share that are both impossible to talk about and impossible to miss. Damian hooks a leg around Jason, digging the unforgiving tread of his boot into Jason’s back. The lips on Damian’s neck turn to teeth, and Jason can _feel_ the hum of an aborted groan. “Its always instant gratification with you bats.”

Arching into the space between them, Damian mutters, “It only seems that way because you’re so _slow_.”

“You do realize you _kicked me off a roof_ , right?” Jason doesn’t sound anywhere near as annoyed as he probably should be, given that Damian actually full-force kicked him off a six-story building. Then again, he’s biting at Damian’s neck in a way that’s definitely going to leave a livid purple mark, so maybe that’s retribution enough.

“Like I said,” Damian swallows, and Jason can feel it; can feel him trying to pull himself back together as Jason continues to pick him apart. “Slow.”

Smirking into Damian’s bruised neck, Jason huffs out, “Asshole.”

It’s dangerous how close to affectionate this can feel.

There’s that boot, trying to force Jason’s closer. “Your vulgarities aren’t impressing anyone.”

“So you’re saying other things about me are impressive?” Jason wheedles, entirely too satisfied with himself.

“Yeah,” And Jason would be surprised at that admission, if Damian’s suddenly free hand— _when did that happen??—_ wasn’t _more_ surprising. “Your girlish grip and your lizard-like attention span.”

He’s so fucking dangerous, and Jason has always loved the way a bloody smile tastes. 

There isn’t even the illusion of an ulterior motive when Jason turns his gaze blatantly toward Damian’s belly, smeared with his own come. “Look who’s talking.”

Fisting his hand in the hair at Jason’s nape, Damian pulls him down the length of his body with a strength Jason still finds surprising. “Indeed. Thank you for pointing out how badly you need to be shut up.”

Resisting just to piss Damian off—to possibly lick the sticky stripes of drying semen off the teen’s abdomen, crawl up his needy body and see if Damian is far enough gone to suck his own come off Jason’s tongue, if his already widespread legs can open any more if Jason snuck his hand down between them—is just occurring to Jason when a completely foreign voice rings out with an alarmed, “What the fuck!?”

It takes Jason a couple seconds to remember—

“ _What the fuck are you doing in my car?!_ ”

Oh.

That’s right. 

This car doesn’t belong to either of them…

To be fair, a guy who parks his car in an alleyway in _this_ neighborhood is kind of asking for trouble. There are far worse things that could have happened—better men have lost the tires off their cars in this neighborhood. Jason supposes it’s a bit of a shock to find two vigilantes fucking in your car, but really, for all that they do for Gotham, interrupting a little harmless heroic hanky panky is downright rude.

Not moving, Jason just raises his voice enough to be heard from within the car. “Everything’s cool dude, just get out of here.”

“Wh-“ Momentarily too stunned to speak, indignant rage quickly loosens the car owner’s tongue. “Fuck you faggot!”

Damian stiffens under him.

Undeterred, the slurs turn to near hysterical shouting, “This is my fucking car! _Get out of my fucking car!_ ”

Braced above Damian, one palm sunk into the seat and the majority of his body shielding Damian from view, Jason’s fairly certain the guy can’t actually see who’s under him. From where he’s standing, they probably look like two overly excited guys who happened to tumble into the wrong asshole’s car. Even if he does notice Damian’s distinctive green boots, they’ve both still got their dominos on, and Jason’s never been more thankful for Damian’s inability to take it slow for one goddamn second.

“Here’s the thing,” In one, practiced movement, Jason’s out of the car and leaning against the open driver’s side door, his gun trained on the guy like an old dog that’s never quite forgotten what it feels like to be beaten. “ _Faggot._ ”

Amazing how fast even the loudest asshole can get quiet with the right incentive.

“Unless you want a bullet in your shithole of a mouth, we _are_ going to fuck in your car.” The sound of the safety releasing is loud in the suddenly quiet alley. “And maybe, if we’re not interrupted, you won’t have any stains to explain or live with.”

That’s a lie, there’s already a scuffmark on the guy’s roof from Damian’s boot—the kid is as flexible as Dickie ever was when he was rocking the hot pants—but both of those thoughts are _way_ beside the point right now.

“Oh,” Jason’s voice is a whip crack in the dark. “And you’re never going to say that word again—or I _will_ find you, and make you _genuinely_ regret it.”

“Y-you’re not going to shoot me!” The guy stutters, but the wild look in his eyes says he’s not quite convinced from his side of the gun. “You’re the good guys!”

Jason grins, and it feels good—better than being a “good guy” ever did. Better than a clean headshot from 100 meters. “Nah, not really.”

A warning shot rips through the night and buries itself in the wall just behind the guy. Bits of brick explode back onto him at the impact, and the guy screams, ducking to cover his head well after the moment it would have helped. The guy takes off with his hands still over his head, running for his life, stumbling over trash and his own fear-leaden feet. A part of Jason itches to get the guy in his sights. To take him down because loose ends are bad for business and Jason doesn’t need rumors of another chink in his armor getting around.

Gunning the guy down because Damian’s never been so still beneath him is about as far from _business_ as it gets, but Jason’s a good liar—and dead men don’t ask questions.

The guy rounds the corner at a skidding run and is gone, but it takes Jason a moment to lower his piece, the thought of blood painting the pavement lingering like sunspots behind his eyes.

Gunshots, while not all that uncommon in Gotham, will assure this particular stretch of alleyway some semblance of privacy. For a little while, at least.

He turns back to Damian, who has an annoyingly familiar pinched expression on his face. Jason slips his gun back into its holster. “What?”

The domino’s lenses narrow in response to Damian’s glare, and its amazing how hostile the kid can manage to look with his tights pulled inside out and only clinging to one ankle. “I _am_ the good guy.”

Jason can remember a time when that distinction was important to him; the most important distinction in the world. But it’s a hazy memory at best, like a dream he can’t quite explain now that he’s finally opened his eyes. The whole good versus bad routine is arbitrary, especially in a city like Gotham, and they should all fucking _know this_ by now. What use is being good if people get hurt? Where is the downside of being bad if you can protect the people who matter most?

He doesn’t really want to get into this conversation. Not with Damian. Not right now.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jason ducks back into the car, sliding a palm under the bend of Damian’s leg. He leans into Damian, guiding Damian’s knee up and into his chest with the full weight of his body, and Damian goes with it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Let’s see what kind of guy you are when your dick is down my throat.”

Bent into an indecent shape, Damian is still glaring daggers at Jason. He’s gone soft between them, and while it’s not a particularly difficult task to get Damian hard again—it’s the principle of the matter, really. Jason leans down to bite at Damian’s leg, dragging his teeth along the sparsely haired expanse of inner thigh, nipping and sucking where he deems appropriate. The beautiful thing about… fucking an acrobat’s protégé is the way Damian can stay put. When Jason removes his hand from behind Damian’s leg, Damian knows to stay open, splayed obscenely, watching Jason’s head between his legs.

He’s just reaching down to unzip himself when Damian palm connects with the shock of white on Jason’s forehead, shoving his head back abruptly. “What the-“

Although clearly distracted, Damian makes a valiant effort to sound annoyed when he demands, “You’re going to come on something, aren’t you?”

Jason’s smirk is a growing thing, and its all kinds of gratifying and terrifying to know that something so simple makes Damian’s cock twitch back to life. He butts his head against Damian’s hand, pushing his way back into Damian’s space when he isn’t met with any real resistance. “Oh baby bird, always underestimating me.”

“Todd.” Damian warns, fisting his fingers in Jason’s thick hair.

“I’m not going to come on _something_.” The teeth of Jason’s zipper come apart one by one, in time with the widening of Jason’s smile. Freed from the confines of his pants and jock, Jason grabs himself and breathes gratefully into the crease of Damian’s leg and groin. “I’m going to come on _everything_ in this bastards trash Cadillac.”

Damian squirms, and it’s easy enough to blame it on the warm breath that ghosts over his dick with explicit promise.

“You’re a beast.” Damian scoffs, but the reprimand in his voice is gone, replaced with a breathlessness that Jason knows all too well.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be fast and fun- and it was, in a way, but i guess i should have known with these two...


End file.
